


How Lucky We Are

by Ericine



Category: Scarecrow and Mrs. King
Genre: F/M, First Time, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate's afforded them this much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Lucky We Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dizzy28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzy28/gifts).



> A holiday gift dedicated to...who else? Half of these ideas come from her anyway.
> 
> Happens between 4.04 and 4.05. Infused with a healthy dose of feelings and enough sugar to knock a grown man on his butt, because really, what else is Amanda anyway?

When Lee asks Amanda to his apartment for a cup of coffee before she goes home for the day, it’s just for pretense. She knows this, of course, and agrees. She wasn’t planning on letting him go home by himself anyway. He’s not in the best of states.

He starts the coffee, and she gets the cups. They fill them, sit down on his couch, and leave the coffee untouched on the table.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks gently. Neither them are thrilled about cases that involve kids, and this particular one ended up alright, but it just as easily couldn’t have.

Honestly, she’s a little shaken too, but she’ll deal with that later when she’s alone (and when she’s able to hold Phillip and Jamie in her arms again—that fixes nearly everything). Lee, on the other hand, is looking a little bit like a deer in headlights, which concerns her a little, only because he’d just dealt with his own family in a case a few weeks before.

“Not really,” he answers. “Honestly, I’m beat.”

His hands are in his lap. She reaches over and places hers on top of his. “Maybe get some sleep then. Call me in the morning?”

“Amanda—” he starts, then stops. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble. I know you want to go home.”

“I’m supposed to be at work anyway,” she says. “Joe’s taken them out. Mother probably has a date. Things haven’t been quiet in a while. I can stay. But you need to get some sleep.”

“ _Amanda_.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He stares. “I promise.”

She follows him into the bedroom with a magazine and sits cross-legged on the other side of the bed while he lies down. “I’ll be right here.” 

“I just need a nap, that’s all.” 

Amanda grins down at her magazine. “Don’t we all?” She looks over when she feels his hand in her own. “I love you,” she says, and leans down and kisses him. 

“I love you too,” he says quietly—he’s already going to sleep.

She leans back against the pillows on the other side of the bed (something that would have never felt comfortable before now) and props the magazine up against her thighs. She doesn’t let go of his hand.

* * *

When she wakes up, it’s dark outside, and Lee’s gone. It disorients her, more because of the latter than the former. That’s when she remembers that she’s in his room and his bed.

Where is he?

There’s just a little light coming out of the corner, and she hears the sink going. Then, the light turns off, but she can still see him in the darkness.

She doesn’t want to startle him. “Lee?”

There’s a pause—maybe he’s trying to see her in the sudden darkness. “You’re awake,” he says, voice a little rough. “Good morning. Uh, it’s technically morning, even though—” He gestures out to the darkness.

Amanda rolls over a little bit to prop herself up on her elbows and hears her forgotten magazine crunch underneath her. “It’s still Saturday?” she asks. It wouldn’t surprise her if it wasn’t. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s felt exhausted the whole week.

Lee chuckles. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

Amanda shivers, and that’s when she realizes that she’s shrugged out of her sweater in her sleep—it’s pooled around her elbows. They’re just shy of cooler days now but nothing that requires a heavy jacket—she’d worn a thick top and a tank top underneath, just in case. When she looks up again, she realizes that Lee’s realized it too.

The same thought hits them at the same time. Darkness. Bedroom. _Privacy._

Two days of time.

No one moves.

Maybe it’s the way she’s dressed (or undressed). She doesn’t opt for short sleeves often—she’s always chilled easily, even in the summer. Today’s different, though.

“Lee?” 

“Yeah?” he asks—almost growls. She feels a chill run through her, but she’s not cold.

“Come back to bed.”

Really, it’s a sentence that could have meant anything, but she can feel the difference, the way her voice drops, the way that she’s more aware of her body than usual (the way that’s she more aware of his body than usual), the way that the dark is freeing in a way that it hasn’t been since she was younger. Time is longer and full of possibility.

He feels it too, because he knows what she’s asking for. He comes to her side of the bed, and he’s fast. She’s faster, though, and she’s pushing her sweater off the bed and up on her knees when he joins her, and she’s grabbing his lapels and pulling him toward her even as their lips meet, as his hands wrap around her waist and run up and down her sides, until they’re so close that his thigh is tucked between her own. 

He’s pushing her top up, running his hands along her stomach, her back. His mouth’s on her neck, and she’s trying to pull her hair out of the way of his mouth, but he won’t let her, and her hands are on his chest, unbuttoning.

He presses into her, and she _wants_ to fall back, wants to feel him on top of her, but she stays up straight because this is still easier for clothes. “You don’t have to be so careful with the shirt,” he says, low and warm in her ear.

She’s unbuttoning top-to-bottom, and she’s just gotten to the bottom. “Don’t be silly—it’s not worth losing a perfectly good shirt,” she says, but she’s tingling everywhere, and her voice rises a bit at the end. She pushes back into him. “Be patient.”

He pulls back, groaning—and is that surprise she sees on his face? She smirks just a little. His hands slide down to her backside and squeeze. It’s the kind of thing that would make her laugh under much different circumstances. She pulls his shirt down and off, pans her hands over his stomach. He’s firm but not chiseled.

She loves that about him.

She slides her arms back up and finds his mouth in the darkness. They kiss again, and she raises her arms, but her bra’s already hanging loose (of _course_ he’d unhooked it without her noticing), and he pulls both off at the same time. “Mm, getting fresh, aren’t you?” she chides him at either end of a deep kiss that’s just _messy_ , sloppy tongues, and their teeth clack together once. 

He traces the curve of her waist and kisses down the side of her neck, right where she likes it, and she knows this because of their many late night make out sessions, but they’ve never done this before (and by _this_ , she means his kiss down her collarbone, down her chest, and as she’s about to lean forward into him again to just _do it already_ , his mouth comes down around the bottom of her breast and back up to the side.

She whimpers, just barely. Her shoulders are on his shoulders, low, and her hands are in his hair, and she’s tilting her head back because his mouth is so close to—

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.

She drapes her arms around him and arches her back. His hands are dipping into the waistband of her pants and back up again. “I could hear it more often.”

He runs his hand along the arch of her back. “You could do _that_ more often.” And— _there_ —his tongue slides over the top of her nipple, and his mouth closes over it.

She sinks down to where she’s sitting, forcing him onto all fours, spreading her legs so he can get closer. He pushes against her shoulders, gentle but firm. She doesn’t lie down. “Do what?” His hand comes up to her other breast, and she arches again. “Oh,” she breathes. “That.”

“ _Amanda_.” He kisses lower—the bottom of her rib cage, her stomach. She pulls him back up to her and sits him down. She slides into his lap and accidentally-on-purpose grinds against him, and when she meets his eyes again, there’s hunger—and just a little bit of surprise.

Her hands are undoing his belt, but he can’t tell that she’s doing it. “If you want something, love, you’re going to have to tell me.”

She’s pulling the belt free, and he takes her wrists so she has to stop. “I want you.” And then he’s undoing her pants too. “I want you _right now_.”

She waits for him to finish, until they’re bare-legged and breathing hard, and she’s having a hard time thinking (it’s a nice feeling, one she hasn’t had for a while, not like this), and she lies back and pulls him on top of her. He’s trying to pull her panties down, but she reaches inside his shorts and—

That look on his face. 

It makes her smile.

She loves him so much that it’s stupid. 

“You,” she says, stroking him. He jumps in her hand.

“You,” he growls, and reaches for her. He’s off from where she wants his hand, but it feels good all the same.

“You,” she repeats, stroking him in time. “Have. No idea. How long. I’ve waited. For you to say that.” He pulls his shorts down, and he follows, and he’s sliding over her, grinding against her slit.

It’s _so much more_ contact than she’s used to, and it’s like she’s forgotten how good this can feel. 

She stops him.

“Okay?” he asks, worried.

“Yes,” she whispers. “God, yes. I just—it’s been a while. Years. Just go slow.” 

“You’re ready?”

Amanda laughs. “You’re the one touching me. Do I feel ready?”

For no other purpose except to be insufferable, he slides his fingers between her legs. “You know, I’m not sure—”

She wraps her legs around him, just loosely, heels on his back. “Come here.”

He’s slow, just like he said he’d be, and she feels herself stretch around him.

 _It feels so good_.

She wants to lean back, wants to lean into his feeling and to him, but she doesn’t want to stop looking at him either, so she pulls him back with her, hand on his jaw. They figure out a pace, not as slow as at first but slow enough to where they can just take the time to feel each other. 

“Do you know,” he asks, a mixture between growl and awe, between kisses on her mouth, on her neck—everywhere, really, “what you look like right now?”

He has one hand on her breast, and she moves it lower, places his fingers where they should go, enforcing the way she wants him to move by making him follow her hand. “No,” she whispers, slurred, drawn out. “I know what you look like, though. You look good. You feel good.” He’s moving his fingers against her—fast, then slow, fast, then slow. She didn’t tell him to do that, but it’s amazing, and she’s going to come _fast_. She sighs. “Love.” She hums, then reaches for his face because she’s leaning her head back again, and he’s got this look of happiness on her face that’s going to pull at her chest later when she’s not second away from an orgasm. “Love, I’m coming. Come here.”

He leans in, but she pulls him closer, deeper, legs around him, hands in his hair. He groans—something, it might be her name, but she can’t tell, because she’s coming and shaking everywhere, and she has to close her eyes for this, and so it’s not until she realizes that he’s resting on top of her that somewhere in there, he’s come too.

“Lee,” she whispers, and he kisses her absentmindedly on the jaw.

“I know I should, but—”

She’s still clinging to him. “I like this too. We’ll do it again.” She hums when he pulls out of her, and when he lies down, she curls into his side, wrapping her arms around him.

“I love you like this.” Amanda giggles. “I loved you like that, too,” he says, and gently nips her nose.

“Lee!”

“I just love you.”

“I love holding you like this.” She slings a leg over his. “I love you too.”

She knows they talk a little bit after that, but she doesn’t fully remember about what. She knows that they doze off together, though, because when she wakes up the next time (fully, that is), he’s still in her arms.

* * *

They don’t really have a morning after conversation about everything, but this is mostly a technicality, because Amanda dreams about longing and release, and then she’s conscious enough to realize that there’s pale light coming through the window (the shades are so thick, though, that it can really mean anything), but she’s in Lee’s arms, and he’s behind her, warm, erection against her back, and when she lies back, her head goes straight into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“You could have woken me up,” she says lazily.

“Did you just wake up now?” he chuckles. “You backed into _me_. I’m not complaining, though.” She leans back—all the way back—to kiss him, and then he kisses her neck. “You’re okay?”

She rolls over to face him and links them up—her leg between his, his leg between hers. “Yeah, of course. I’m not dreaming. You?”

He kisses her then, and she swears it’s the deepest and loveliest that it’s ever been. She opens her eyes (they’ve been closed this whole time—she feels like she’s floating and must still be part asleep) and sees that his are closed too. She closes hers again and shifts so there’s just a little bit more space between them. He makes a noise of pure satisfaction, and she moves her hips again, kisses his nose, and takes his hand where it’s resting on her shoulder.

He’s figured it out. He shifts once and is back inside her so quickly that Amanda wonders if she’s still wet from the last time.

They have to have their eyes closed still—that has to be the reason that it’s hard for a moment to find the other’s mouth. When she finds his, it’s open in some expression that probably mirrors hers ( _so good_ ), and they don’t even kiss—they just rest forehead-to-forehead while they figure out where their legs go, and then they’re moving, and he’s making that sound again.

They’re warm now, really warm, and she can feel his damp chest, his neck. They’ll deal with it later.

“Keep this up, won’t want you to leave,” he mumbles between thrusts. 

She kisses him to quiet him but leaves her mouth right up next to his for when she speaks. “Don’t talk about that. I’m right here. Stay with me.”

Again, she can’t tell when he comes—she knows that he’s gripping her tighter at some point, and she thinks maybe his teeth graze her neck, but she’s so out of it that it all feels (and she’ll remember it this way later) like a haze of sensation. He slips out of her at some point, and that’s when she notices how wet (how _messy_ , and she makes a note to help him wash his sheets before she leaves).

She hugs him to herself, runs her hands in his hair, and pulls the covers down just a little bit—not enough to chill but just enough to cool them down. “Did you—” he mumbles, and Amanda smiles.

“No,” she whispers. Not that she’d really wanted to. Seeing him like this is enough. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t move.” But his fingers are already inside her, and, she doesn’t know how he does it, and she’s nowhere near conscious enough to ask, but she feels like he spins the orgasm out of her. Her nose is against his cheekbone, forehead on his temple.

They don’t move after. They just go back to sleep.

* * *

Full consciousness comes later, and Amanda’s happy that the phone’s within reach of her side of the bed (which means he has to be sleeping on a different side than he usually does, and she doesn’t know how she doesn’t know what side he prefers yet). It’s not that hard to order take out—he’s dead asleep, but the menus are in the drawer.

The bedside table drawer. Seriously?

She laughs to herself, a little too loudly, and it wakes him up.

He’s tense. “What’s wrong?”

She grabbed the first thing that she could put on, which happens to be her zip-up sweater on the floor, which she has left unzipped. He’s naked and beautiful, though, so she crawls back into his arms and kisses him. “We’re hungry. That’s what’s wrong. But I fixed it.”

He smirks. “Hungry, yes.” He pulls her off balance so she has to straddle him.

“We need to eat.”

He sits up. “We do not.” He lies back down. “Okay, a little dizzy. Maybe we do.”

“They said they’d be here in half an hour,” she tells him. “Can I use your shower?”

“Isn’t that implied?”

“Okay, I’ll be in the bathroom.”

“Can I join you?”

She lets the sweater slide off her shoulders onto the floor and doesn't turn around. “Isn’t that implied?”

* * *

They don’t have sex in the shower. His floor is too slippery, and they decide not to risk it (well, Amanda decides not to risk it, but she hasn’t seen him— _really seen him_ in the light yet, and she knows the story behind most of the scars on his body, but the sight of them still gives her pause). There’s a rubber mat on the floor, but it’s covered in mold, and they toss it out without discussing it. She makes a note to pick one up the next time they’re out for lunch.

She does, however, get her back washed better than it has been in years.

There’s plenty they can do, though. The soap is slippery, and she teaches him how to wash her hair (it’s not the best thing for her perm, but that’s not a huge deal). They kiss a lot and laugh when they have to wash the soap out of their mouths.

He’s the one who remembers the food and rescues the poor delivery boy from the door while Amanda hides in the bathroom waiting for him to bring her an extra towel.

They eat Thai takeout in the living room, cross-legged and dressed in sweatpants and two of Lee’s sweaters. Amanda has her hair tied up in a towel.

“Do Dotty and the boys like Thai?” asks Lee, between sips of soup. 

“Well enough,” shrugs Amanda. “We cook a lot, but we try to get a variety in there. I’d be lying if I said that they didn’t jump for a good burger.”

“And a shake?”

She grins. “Of course.”

“They seem great,” he says, and she turns and searches his face for what he’s trying to say.

“You can tell them yourself someday.”

“Yeah?” 

She puts down her spoon and takes his hand. “We’ll work it out.” He nods but doesn’t look convinced. “You know that my family’s half of me. You think I’d be with someone that wouldn’t get along with them?”

It’s kind of silly to kiss with all the food, but she leans her forehead into his. It’s a moment, a sweet moment.

“You’ve my family, Amanda,” he tells her like he’s told her several times before, but his voice is shaking just a little bit.

“You’re mine,” she replies. “Stop trying to get out of eating.”

She feeds him half her bowl of soup after that (she can't stop once she starts—he's too cute), but she doesn’t mind.

* * *

She doesn’t think of herself as a sexual person, per se. It’s on the list (it’s _definitely_ on the list), but it falls underneath the flurry of other things she has to do, like make sure her boys don’t fail school, check in with Dotty to make sure that she isn’t getting too impulsive with her flavor of the month (check in with Dotty at all, these days—she’s getting bad at this), volunteer at the concession stand at the baseball stadium for her once-a-month mother’s club obligation, and make sure she stays alive at work long enough to do all of these things.

She has to take care of all of these things, even though she’s with Lee technically on work assignment for the whole weekend, and he watches her make all of the phone calls from where he sits on the couch with a fresh popped bowl of popcorn. 

“World still intact?” he asks her when she finally hangs up and sighs.

“It’ll hold for another day.” She settles into his lap to kiss him for no particular reason—he’s warm and they fit together—and then she realizes that sex is much higher on her list than it’s been for a while.

She reaches for his shirt before he finishes running his hands up and down her sides, and when she pulls it over his head, he looks surprised.

“So, I should be thinking of these calls as good things?” he asks.

“Hush.” She reaches for his pants, next, and then he’s flipping her over on the couch so she’s on her back and he’s above her. She slides out of her (his) sweater, and then he’s sliding to the floor, kneeling on the ground while he gets rid of her sweatpants (she’s not wearing underwear—she knows that it’s going to be pointless for these couple of days).

“Lee,” she whispers, when his next kiss is on her hipbone and nowhere near her mouth.

He kisses the top of her thigh. “Want to try something,” he says softly, in that voice that’s bright and assertive. A hero's voice, Amanda thinks. “That okay?”

It’s kind of a miracle that this weekend’s gone on as long as it has without more of an interruption, but she leans into his mouth involuntarily and decides that he can try whatever he wants if he keeps this up. “Yeah.” He kisses the inside her thigh, and she reaches for his head (she loves playing with his hair) right as he licks a long line up her center. She sighs.

“Good?” he asks.

“Mhm,” she replies, and he’s up on the couch now, kneeling between her legs, swirling his tongue up and down her. She looks up (she just feels like she needs to see him), and she registers that he’s turned on too (looking at her, eyes dark, then closing them as he licks again), and she rolls her head back. She’s wet, and she’s dripping, and she wants to be concerned about what this is going to do to his couch but can’t find it in her to care. “You don’t have to, you know.”

He rolls her clit between his lips for a moment, and she gasps. “Oh, but I want to. I really, really want to.” And then he’s kissing her, the way he kisses her on the mouth, and she slides her legs over his shoulders.

“Slower.” She’s hot everywhere, and her hips aren’t quite in the right position, so her back’s protesting just a little bit, but she’s curling her toes and moving against his mouth. “ _Yes_.”

She doesn’t know if he means to or not, but he groans against her, and the sound and the sensation kicks her way closer to the edge than she was before. “Lee!”

He makes that sound again, and she’s coming, breathy, reaching for his hand on her hip. They interlock their fingers, and she’s shaking, and he’s holding her down, and it’s not until she’s stopped shaking and he pulls away that he’s had his tongue inside of her.

“You,” she says, grinning wide.

He looks up at her, mouth still on her thigh. “You want to go again?”

She laughs. “God, yes— _Lee_.” And his mouth is back on her, and she’s gasping again.

* * *

She doesn’t know how long they’re on the couch (time's really the last thing on her mind), but she does notice when he starts to reach for himself, and she takes her chance and undresses him and mounts him right on the couch (slides straight down on him like it’s nothing—and the _look_ on his face has her clenching around him before they’ve even begun). She holds his head to her chest, but she can still hear him—it’s just her name over and over and over.

She rests like that on his lap for a while before he speaks. “We’ll probably have to order in again.” 

Amanda giggles. "Did you think that we were leaving once we started this?"

"No, but I also didn't consider how little I'd want to move."

She lays her head down on his shoulder, and his hand comes up to comb through her (mussed) hair. “Your turn this time.”

* * *

They fall asleep in the middle of the movie, but she doesn’t mind making him move to the bed. She’s too tired (he is too), and it’s so strikingly normal that she doesn’t want to touch the moment in its rawness, in its purity.

When she wakes up again, it’s just barely, and it’s because there’s nothing under her anymore because he’s carrying her (she loves when he carries her) to bed. It’s a hazy memory in her mind—she doesn’t remember it until she wakes up and finds that she is not, in fact, on the couch anymore—but she swears he tucks her in. It’s something that he’s really good at.

It makes her heart swell and the back of her eyes burn. It’s so much that she can’t contain herself to sitting in bed. She’s awake, now, and it’s the next day (she has it in her to check the time now). She slips out of bed but makes sure to touch his shoulder before she does (just leaving bed seems to sudden). 

He smiles.

God, she loves him.

She doesn’t know what to do when she gets up, but she has so much emotion that she can’t just do _nothing_. She goes and gets herself a glass of water and stands in the doorway of his room ( _their room_ —she tries the phrase out in her mind and finds that she likes the way it feels, unique in a way that is also beautiful) and watches him sleep for a moment.

Her heart swells again, and there’s no one around (he’s so concerned about her when she cries, and it’s not that she doesn’t mind crying in front of him, but she knows that he worries, and she doesn’t want him to worry over something like this even though he is asleep), so she wraps her arms to herself and lets her eyes fill.

They’ve shared so much, and they’ve only just begun their lives together (they’re going to be together for a long time, and she knows this down in her bones). How can she be this lucky?

This question’s always in her mind during quiet moments. When she wakes up in the morning in the few moments before her household comes to life, when she’s in the shower after a long day (that may have lasted longer than 24 hours), when she and Dotty share a rare coffee in silence (they don’t do it very often, but when they do, they don’t have to say anything because they just _understand_ , the kind of understanding that’s only in feelings and not words). And right now, she let’s herself feel that question, lets it warm her up and brighten everything around her (and also the sun’s rising, but even that plays right into this, everything that she has, everything that she’s become, and everything—the world—that he is to her).

It's not that she thinks that they're perfect for anything—they've worked, worked hard (she's loved him so much longer before she said it and even longer before she could admit it to herself, but she's at a point in her life where she can only go in for the long haul, but they had such a long way to go before _this_ ).

He snuggles and backs into her when she gets back into bed. She wraps her arms around him and tries not to cry.

“My Amanda,” he slurs sleepily. “You’re here.”

She kisses his shoulder. “Of course,” she whispers. Then, even softer, because she's just getting used to saying it out loud, saying it again, she adds, "Always."


End file.
